


I'll Still Believe

by sherlocksavant (thecaffeinatedaspie)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Gen, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaffeinatedaspie/pseuds/sherlocksavant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"But I'll still believe though there's cracks you'll see,<br/>When I'm on my knees I'll still believe,<br/>And when I've hit the ground, neither lost nor found,<br/>If you'll believe in me I'll still believe"</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead, and John finds that somehow, in his subconscious, he knew this day would come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson wasn't someone to easily forget. In school, this worked to his advantage. He didn't have much difficulty studying when rote memorization was the key to a good grade. He was never quite as brilliant as the rest of his peers, but his work came fairly easy to him, and the few times he struggled, well, he managed, and with an older sister who was a brainiac in her own way, well, it wasn't difficult to be a good student.

In personal relationships, this didn't always work so well. He remembered too many faults, too many times a person had failed him, and at first, he spent more time focusing on that than on the person, and so his early relationships, especially with women? They were doomed to fail. He eventually figured out how to remember that everyone is human and that focusing on a person's strengths rather than their faults was the key. He didn't have very many long-lasting relationships, but at least the ones he did have weren't fraught with tension.

Then the day came that Mike Stamford introduced John to Sherlock Holmes, and while it was obvious that he was different in a very obvious way, in a you-don't-just-meet-a-person-like-this-every-day sort of way, he was no different than any other relationship that John Watson had had. 

John Watson remembered everything. Every thoughtless word, every time he was left behind. But he also remembered the brilliance, the feeling of being included in Sherlock’s very important work. He remembered not feeling alone.

And now, as the man stood before him, the man who was supposed to have died three years ago, who had thrown himself off a roof and made John watch him do so, John could remember with great clarity a conversation they had right before the end. 

“I know you’re for real,” John had said, a sentiment that was nearly repeated verbatim as Sherlock stood on the roof of St. Bartholomew’s.”

“One hundred percent?” Sherlock had asked, if not quite sure he believed John’s sincerity.

John had never doubted. Not once, not when “Richard Brook” had appeared before him and had made ridiculous claims. Not when Kitty Reilly had explained the entire plan. Not when the papers and the people talked about how much of a fraud he was. 

The odd thing was, John never really grieved like a regular person would. He didn’t greive over Sherlock the way he had grieved for his friends in Afghanistan. He didn’t grieve over Sherlock the way he had grieved just a year prior, when Harry had died. He often wondered why that was, and now as Sherlock stood before him, very different, to be sure, but still very much Sherlock, he realized that perhaps it was simply his subconscious trying to tell him something. Perhaps he had known all along that Sherlock was not really dead.

Sherlock wasn’t dressed in a manner that he had expected, if he had been prepared for this at all. He was wearing a dark wash pair of denim trousers, with a shirt the color of his eyes with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was ginger, and he wondered about that – was that the color his hair naturally was, or did he dye it to be darker, so that he looked as little like Mycroft as he possibly could? Somehow, John wouldn’t put that past him at all. He was too thin, and that was really what John had a difficult time not focusing on. His hands shook as he stood over the threshold, and John wondered when the last time he’d eaten had been.   
John swallowed hard. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice betraying him. He couldn’t very well pretend like this had been nothing, like he hadn’t suffered heartbreak that some days, on very bad days, made him want to curl up and not speak to a single person. “Sherlock,” he said again, this time, his voice a little stronger, but more questioning than the time prior.

“John,” the other man echoed, walking forward so that John could see for certain that he was real, that this was actually happening.

John reached out his hands and clasped Sherlock’s in his own, if for no other reason than to calm his shaking. “When was the last time you ate?”

Sherlock laughed, and marveled at what a fantastic question that really was. “What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“Hmm. Must have been Saturday, then.”

John rolled his eyes, as if there was nothing ridiculous about this reunion, as if there was nothing weird about inquiring about Sherlock’s eating habits when he had just spent the past three years believing his best friend to be dead. Well, sort of believing. He knew his subconscious didn’t quite buy into the lie.

John led him to a chair and disappeared into the kitchen to fix tea and biscuits. In reality, this was enough of a simple, routine task that it allowed him time to process what was awaiting him back in his living room. An apology? No, probably not. An explanation? Certainly. He was certain he’d get some fantastic story to explain why he had lied, why he had told his best friend that he was a fraud and expected him to just believe that.

When he returned, the expression on Sherlock’s face could only be explained as “Worried”. It was clear that he was attempting to gauge John’s possible reaction. John sat down next to him, after handing him a cup of tea. 

Sherlock sipped at the tea and nibbled on a biscuit before making a face. “These are horrible.”

“Sorry,” John shrugged. “I didn’t really expect to be entertaining.”

Somehow, Sherlock found this a bit funny, and let out a sardonic laugh. “No, I suspect not.” He scrutinized his friend. “You didn’t know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“But you didn’t doubt who I was.”

“No, I didn’t,” John repeated.

“In three years, you never updated your blog past that day.”

“You’re right. I didn’t. I didn’t see the point. The people who believed you weren’t a fraud offered their support in their own ways. The people didn’t believe you, well, I wasn’t writing for them, was I?”

Sherlock nodded. “I see. So when we were – before, when you blogged, you blogged for the world or just the people who mattered?”

John shrugged. “I don’t really know. It doesn’t really matter. The people who hired you thought you were worth contacting, right? That was the point. You were, at times, a pompous arse to everyone, even those who didn’t deserve it.”

“Quite right.”  
John rolled his eyes. How typical it was of Sherlock to take that as something nearing a compliment when he meant nothing of the sort. He knew they weren’t going to get anywhere if he relied on Sherlock to do the talking. The man wasn’t adept at that in the best of times, and a tired, hungry, world-weary Sherlock was certainly not at his best now.

“Tell me. Tell me why you left me. Why you let me believe – why you wanted me to believe that you were a fraud and had killed yourself. Tell me why you made me watch.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“Tell me. Tell me why you left me. Why you let me believe – why you wanted me to believe that you were a fraud and had killed yourself. Tell me why you made me watch.”

It was a long time before Sherlock responded. Somehow, John hadn’t expected that. The man had always been quick witted and this was just not like him at all. He was quiet, and he shifted awkwardly in the chair, staring into his teacup before looking up at John for the briefest of moments, all without catching his eye even once.

“I did it to save you.”

John laughed at that. “Save me? Save me? From what, Sherlock? What was so dangerous that I couldn’t have handled it myself, you know, with my gun and army training?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Moriarty’s snipers.”

That stopped John’s laughter. He shot Sherlock a sharp look, and Sherlock simply nodded. “Okay, I’m going to need more than that.”

“I know you do.” Sherlock swallowed the last bit of his tea and set his cup down before pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. It was a protective gesture, a subconscious (probably) movement to protect himself emotionally from John’s response. He gulped, and John nearly jumped back when he saw the raw emotion in his eyes. “Did anyone find the phone? Mycroft? Lestrade? Someone was supposed to find it.”

John hadn’t expected this to be the response he received. “I don’t -- I don’t know, Sherlock. I haven’t spoken to any of them since -- since your funeral, I suppose.”

Sherlock nodded, as though he suspected that. “Just as well. You were supposed to buy the lie. It would have looked suspicious if they had told you.” He rocked himself back and forth, and it looked as though he were trying to comfort himself, as though he were a small child. John didn’t suspect that this confession would be easy on either of them, but he had figured that Sherlock would have prepared some sort of speech beforehand. Clearly that wasn’t the case, or if he had tried, he had determined that there was no good way to tell your best friend that you were not, in fact, dead, as he had been led to believe for the past three years. “On the rooftop, of St. Bart’s....you only saw what you were supposed to see. I had Molly Hooper have one of her coworkers call you and pose as EMS.”

John nodded, and ran his palm over his face. “God, I almost forgot that part. It’s been a long time since I thought about that day.”

Sherlock simply nodded and continued. “Before you arrived, Moriarty was up on the roof with me. You didn’t see him, and I assume one of his associates came to collect his body soon after I jumped. He told me -- he said if I didn’t jump, all my friends in the world would be killed. You. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. All of you.”

John swallowed hard and nodded, as though something was clicking in his head. “I thought I had failed you.”

At this, Sherlock looked up in surprise. “Failed me? How could you fail me?”

“I thought -- Goddamn it, Sherlock. I’m a doctor. I’m supposed to save people. I’m supposed to -- I thought you were suicidal and I didn’t know. I thought you were bored, depressed, a combination, I don’t know. I thought it was my fault that I didn’t notice. That I was too stupid to notice.”

For the first time since they began their discussion, Sherlock dropped his knees and turned toward John, and he pressed the palm of his hand to John’s cheek. When John looked at his face, he saw that his lip was quivering and his eyes were full of emotion. “John. My dear John. I had no idea.”

The tone of his voice and his touch broke the dam that John had so carefully built within himself, and he found himself lurching forward, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. “You stupid, stupid man,” he cried as he pressed his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, wetting his coat with his tears. “How could you not know?”

This reaction wasn’t one that Sherlock had planned for, though it had been on his list of possibilities of how John would react. Oh, he had gone through all of them. He had decided that there was a 79% possibility that John would punch him. He might still do, after all, he considered as the man’s arms tightened around him. 

Sherlock didn’t do physical affection like other people. Oh, sure, he would offer up a handshake or a quick hug or even a kiss on the cheek to Mrs. Hudson or Molly, but real, genuine physical affection like this was new to him, and surprisingly, he found that he quite enjoyed it. He didn’t enjoy John’s crying. That was overwhelming, and as he knew he was the cause of it, there was nothing pleasant about that. But John’s arms wrapped around him, as though he was going to drift away if he let go, as if he were somehow just a dream that would disappear at any moment.

It was a long few moments before John did let go, with a sheepish grin and a quick wipe of his eyes. “Sorry. I -- sorry,” he cleared his throat. 

Sherlock looked at him, completely baffled. “Why would you apologize?”

“I know you don’t particular like dramatic displays of emotion.”

“Only when it clouds my ability to deduce. But I think it’s perfectly obvious in this case where your feelings lie.”

John nodded, and turned a little bit pink at that statement. “Right.”

Sherlock sighed and stretched. He really was tired, and a little bit worse for wear since his return to England. “Do you need … more explanations?”

John frowned. “I’d like to know where you’ve been. But you look -- well, you look knackered. Do you want to stay?”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. “I would very much like that, John.”

“Are you safe now? Are we all safe?”

Sherlock nodded and clapped John on the shoulder. “As safe as we ever will be. Moriarty is dead, and Sebastian Moran has likewise been dealt with.”  
John raised his eyebrows. “Colonel Sebastian Moran?”

“You know him, then.”

“Knew him, yeah. What has he to do with --”

“Let’s just say that he was Moriarty’s version of...well, you.”

John shuddered at that thought. “Yeah. On that note, I’d definitely like to stop talking now.” He looked around the room, and frowned in thought for a moment. “I haven’t touched anything in your room since Mrs. Hudson and I went through it and removed all hazardous and er, decomposing materials. Your sheets aren’t fresh, but they should be just fine.”

Sherlock nodded, though he was a bit puzzled by the look on John’s face. It was a mixture between awkward and nervous, and he couldn’t figure out why.

When he entered his room, he knew the answer. The room had been left exactly as he remembered, with one difference. It smelled like John. That meant that John had more than likely slept in here, more than once, perhaps even recently. It wasn’t John’s room, that much was obvious. Nothing was disturbed, save only the bed sheets that were a bit wrinkled. He found a pair of pyjamas in the top drawer and put them on, before returning to the living room once again. 

John looked surprised to see him, especially with that look of amusement on his face. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you want to sleep with me?”

It was a good thing that John hadn’t been drinking anything, because he spluttered and coughed. “What?” he asked.

“I don’t mean that,” Sherlock explained. “I mean, it’s obvious that you’ve been sleeping in my room. Would you like to continue to do so?”

John blushed, his ears turning pink and he cleared his throat. “I -- well, you’re here. I don’t think that’s strictly necessary, Sherlock.”  
“I didn’t ask if you thought it was necessary. Would you like to?”

John thought for a second, but before he let his brain catch up with his heart he nodded. “Yes. I would like to sleep in your bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for Let's Write Sherlock- Challenge #3!
> 
> The song is "Holland Road" by Mumford and Sons. I considered a number of different songs, but this one seems to fit the tone/subject matter, so there you have it.
> 
> I've been wanting to write a song fic for quite awhile, and this gave me the perfect opportunity.


End file.
